


something in your eyes like kaleidoscopes

by inkwelled



Series: starmoraweek2018 [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Alien Technology, Constellations, F/M, Fever, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Heart-to-Heart, Hurt Gamora (Marvel), Just Fluff Who Am I Kidding, Late Night Conversations, Literal Sleeping Together, Living Together, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Peter Quill, Sharing Body Heat, Sickfic, Stargazing, found family trope, glow-in-the-dark stars, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 12:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15886371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: day three ; think prisms in my brain, you're some phenomenon— he swings his legs over the side of the bed. “we haven’t been to the cabin in a while,” he shrugs, “and we could both use a break.”





	something in your eyes like kaleidoscopes

**Author's Note:**

> title ; [kaleidoscopes](https://genius.com/Transviolet-kaleidoscopes-lyrics) by [transviolet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkJC9FWTnOI)
> 
> notes ; gamora is a biblical name meaning "rebellious people" so i stuck with the theme and picked idara for her mother, which means "gracious, protector" (or at least according to the websites i used).
> 
> enjoy!

“Why don’t we take a trip to the cabin this weekend?” 

Gamora looks up from her book, snuggled beneath a fluffy white blanket on the windowseat in their room. She furrows her eyebrows, sticking her finger between the pages to keep her spot. “What?” 

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. “We haven’t been to the cabin in a while,” he shrugs, “and we could both use a break.” 

The circles under her eyes and the defeated slump of her shoulders when they’re alone don’t lie. It’s been a month now since they landed in Wakanda to help clean up Earth after the fight that destroyed the Gauntlet and the titan who wielded it. 

But now they’re in the Avengers Compound, and next door he can hear Rocket and Drax arguing about _something._ Stark had offered them rooms adjacent to each other while they helped the final crews clean up the last of the wreckage and Rocket predicts they can be on their way back to space in a couple days. 

She nods, rubs at her eyes. “That would be nice,” she admits quietly, leaning her head back to rest on the wall. Just the simple motion sends a wave of exhaustion through her, and she thinks lifting all those pieces of concrete for three days in a row might not have been the best idea. 

Keeping her eyes open is a battle she can’t win so she surrenders. When she feels Peter’s hand on her arm, she smiles sleepily. “Let’s go, then,” she whispers, and drifts off to the warmth and contentment that his presence brings her. 

Gamora has never considered herself a feel-y person, comforted by others, always cold and distant but the last few weeks have been hard on a body that’s still healing. Whenever she lifts something she knows should be a piece of cake, she can _feel_ Peter’s worried gaze on her. 

She comes to slowly, like a realization. 

For a second, she doesn’t know where she is. She doesn’t recognize the interior or the leather beneath her until she hears Peter’s soft _hey, hey, hey._ Blinking, she looks down at the hand on her thigh and follows it up. 

Her head is stuffed with cotton, hearing like she’s in the ocean again, and Peter’s smile isn’t quite as wide as she remembers it having the potential to be. “Hey,” he murmurs, “you’re okay. We’re in the car.” 

_The car._

She nods, every movement causing the pounding behind her eyes to intensify. “The Guardians?” 

Peter’s thumb rubs circles in her thigh and she hums at the touch, comforted. 

“They’re back at the Compound; they send their well-wishes and if you’re feeling better in two days, I told them they could come to the cabin too. They’ve never been and Mantis seemed very excited.” 

She buries her head in the crook of his elbow, curling her hand around his. “Sounds good,” she hums, and ignores the floating sensation that comes when she blinks. 

“Mora?” 

She’s silent. 

“Gamora?” 

Her forehead is pressed against the inside of his elbow, and he curses. Wrestling his fingers from hers, her hand suddenly leaden, he lays the back of his hand against her head and hisses. She’s burning up, feverish to the point of worry, and he thinks for a second before stepping on the gas. 

They’re already three hours from the Compound; even if they turned around there’s nothing back there that could help. As smart as Stark is, he has no medicine for the last living alien of an extinct race. 

The cabin is less than an hour away, so he ignores the sign on the side of the road and grips her hand in his. She’s delirious, sweating, and he bets her mods are overridden with the heat because usually if her internal temperature gets above a certain celsius, her body will respond with counter measures. 

She’s basically shut down. There’s no counter measures. 

Over the next thirty minutes, she gets _worse._ Despite how hot her skin is, she starts shivering in her sleep and sobs wrack her body for the last ten minutes of their trip. By the time the gravel driveway comes into view, his knuckles are white against the wheel. 

The local hospital has nothing, and he can only hope there’s enough supplies from the _Benetar_ left over from their last visit. Their cabin is isolated from the rest of the town by twenty minutes and surrounded by tall evergreen trees, a walk from the lake, and he’s never been happier. 

He fumbles with her seatbelt, and his chest quickens when he draws her to his chest and she doesn’t move. Even through his shirt, her skin is burning up, the scars on her face starting to glow in the afternoon light and he curses again. 

Peter’s hand shakes when he unlocks the front door and he basically runs to their bedroom. The cabin isn’t huge; only five rooms – the biggest being the kitchen and living room combined – and he doesn’t bother to switch on lights as he goes. Gamora’s arm lays limp over her chest and he does everything but kick open the door to the bedroom. 

Trying not to jostle her is the hardest part. She groans when his arms leave her and in the next second he’s rooting through the bathroom, frantic. His mind loops the image of her sweating and shivering and sobbing in the passenger seat and he’s so focused on finding the medicine to help her body heal when he hears her. 

“Peter……Peter…..Peter…..” 

He stops his search and goes back into their bedroom. Gamora is staring up at the ceiling, calling his name weakly and blinking rapidly. He reaches for her hand, ignoring the slickness and heat of her palm. “It’s okay, Mora, I’m right here.” 

“Stars,” she breathes, still staring at the roof and he blinks. 

Instead of Gamora on the bed, it’s his mother. She’s covered in thin white blankets and his hand is tiny when he reaches for hers, too little too late. Peter blinks again and it’s his girlfriend this time. 

He remembers the delirious words of his mother as she deteriorated, her final words, and grips Gamora’s hand tighter. He won’t let her fade away like his mom. 

“Babe?” 

She closes her eyes, fingers falling limp under his. “Stars…” 

Panic claws at his throat, rolling over his tongue and tearing apart his jaw. “Gamora?” 

Silence greets him. She’s gone limp against the bed again and he swears, fingers shakily pressing against her neck. There’s an unsteady beat under her skin, and he breathes out when her chest rises and falls after a minute. 

He knows there’s supplies here somewhere. 

. 

An hour later, the shivering stops. 

He’s managed to wrangle her under the blankets, laying on her back with hair swept back so he can get to the panel on her neck. When he finally succeeds in popping off the top, he’s met with dimly flickering wires and sucks in a breath. 

_Here goes nothing._

Somehow, he finds the right wires. If he remembers right, rebooting this wire will jolt her immune system back into gear. It won’t be as fast as usual, but she’ll heal. 

Peter drops his head into the crook of her neck and shoulder and watches the wires blink back to life under her skin. He replaces the panel, rearranges her hair, puts away the supplies. His knees ache from kneeling from so long, but he grabs the keys. 

There’s something he’s got to do. 

. 

When she wakes, it’s because there’s a sliver of sunshine directly in her face. 

Opening her eyes is such a feat that it takes what feels like minutes for her to just peel back her eyelids. The room comes into focus slowly; her optics still messed up by whatever is bugging her body, and she blinks. 

Her mouth is dry, lips cracked, and she winces when she tries to sit upright. Falling back on the pillows propping her up, she runs her tongue over her teeth, quickly giving up trying to swallow the bad taste in her mouth. 

Head spinning as she peers around the room, it takes her a few seconds to realize the last thing she remembers is Peter’s face, creased with worry in front of her before everything turns black. She’s in their room in the cabin, the sun obviously setting by the hazy colors that filter through the gaps in the curtains and she groans. 

She tries to bring her hand to her forehead to rub away the throbbing but her arm is lead. Frustrated, she turns her head, attempting to find some answers to where Peter is, why she’s alone, what happened, but instead finds a single glass of water on the nightstand. 

It’s within reach, easy enough for her to grasp without moving her head too much, and the cold water feels like heaven when she gulps it down. A minute later it’s all gone, and she’s laying her head back on the pillow, neck heavy with exhaustion when she sees it. 

Millions of stars. 

Her breath stutters in her chest. Ignoring the aching, she props herself up on shaky elbows and watches as the constellations come to life on her ceiling. It takes a second, the last dying rays of sunshine holding back the dark, but as soon as they disappear she feels her eyes burn. 

It’s _her_ stars _._

To be more specific, it’s the familiar constellation clusters of _home._

It’s been more than two decades since she saw these exact stars; lighting up the night sky from her place in her mother’s bed, cuddled close. Just the memory of her mother, blurry-faced and soft-spoken, reassured, _dead,_ makes her heart drop. 

She remembers asking her mother about the constellations every night; the stories her mother told her have buried themselves beneath the surface with time but she looks up and they come rushing back. _The Lovers,_ her mother had whispered, pointing to the two constellations like looked like two people dancing in the stars. 

 _What’s their story?_ she had asked, wide-eyed and naïve at eight, and Idara had laughed. 

_They danced and loved so deeply the gods let them stay together, even in death. If you see them, baby, they’ll guide you._

She hasn’t seen the lovers in eons. 

“Hey,” someone whispers, hand slipping into hers, and she tears her gaze to find Peter kneeling by the side of the bed. His eyes are ringed deeply with black, and he smiles when she swipes a thumb under them. “Don’t worry about me.” 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and the lines on his forehead deepen. 

“What for?” 

She drops her hand from his face, twisting them together in her lap. “For lying and pretending I was alright. It was never my intention to hurt you.” 

Holding up a hand when he tries to protest, she sighs. “I hurt you. We promised each other we wouldn’t lie yet I ignored my health and lied to you about it for days. My negligence of my own body caused you worry.” 

Peter lays his hand over hers. “I’m just glad you’re awake,” he says, before his eyebrows furrow. “You are feeling better, right?” 

She nods, pillow crinkling under her head. “I’m tired, everything aches, and I’m hungry but besides that I feel better than I have in days. Thank you.” 

He smiles lopsidedly. “If you want to thank me, please never work yourself to sickness again.” 

Gamora closes her eyes, squeezing his hand back. “Deal.” 

“Do you want something to eat? Whenever I was sick, my mom used to make chicken noodle soup. Now, I couldn’t find a recipe, but I have some I bought.” 

She cracks open one eye, raising her eyebrow. “Why?” 

Shrugging, Peter goes to get up. “I don’t know why, it’s just some weird Earth thing – babe?” 

Still half-kneeling, he can’t seem to move. Gamora’s hand is wrapped around his arm, preventing him from standing up, and he looks down at her. “What’s wrong?” 

“Thank you,” she whispers, “for bringing me the stars.” 

His eyes soften, sides of his mouth curving up involuntarily. “For you, anything.” 

She lets go. 

Peter doesn’t move. 

“I really wish I could kiss you,” he murmurs, and she closes her eyes when he brings her hand to his lips. “I guess this will have to do for now.” 

She hums as his mouth brushes each one of her knuckles, ignoring the buzzing behind her eyelids. “I suppose it will.” 

When Peter holds the spoon to her mouth, feeding her broth, she doesn’t protest. Her arms feel like lead, heavy and useless by her sides so she accepts the help he gives. Later that night, when he lowers her into a warm bath to help her sinuses open – whatever those are, she doesn’t ask and finds she doesn’t mind his ministrations – she watches the concentration on his face as he shampoos her hair. 

She reaches for his hand when he tucks her in. She’s floating, pleasantly warm and feeling better than she has in weeks, but the bed and blankets are cold. “Stay,” she murmurs. “Please.” 

“Always,” he whispers, and she falls asleep with his arms around her, her head pressed to his chest, heartbeat under her ear. Her braid, heavy with water, leaves a spot on his shirt but he doesn’t mind, intertwining their fingers on his stomach. 

By the time he whispers _I love you_ , she’s already asleep. 

. 

Peter’s head appears over the side of the roof. “What’s this?” 

She smiles, watching him take in the blanket she’s spread out, the two bottles of fizzy water he seems to enjoy so much. It’s two days later, and Gamora’s never felt better. 

He climbs the ladder the rest of the way. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

Humming, she leans back on her hands. The night air is starting to cool with the absence of the sun, and Peter plops down beside her. “If you’re going to take a man’s sweatshirt,” he laughs, poking at her side, “at least warn him first! I was looking for this.” 

She chuckles, leaning into his side. Despite feeling much better, there’s moments of dizziness and his arm comes around to cup her shoulder. Tomorrow morning the rest of the Guardians will arrive in the Benetar, and they’ll spend the day here before leaving Earth to return to space. 

“I wanted to thank you,” she says into the night, staring out among the trees and the open sky, “for taking care of me.” 

Peter’s chest rumbles. “Of course.” 

She looks down, rubs her fingers over his knuckles. “As a child, my mother would tell me stories about the constellations. My favorite was The Lovers – two people so in love that when they died, the gods couldn’t bear to part them. So they gave them a place in the stars, and they danced forever against the sky, together, happy.” 

He’s silent next to her and she takes a deep breath. “That story was always my favorite, but I had forgotten it for so long.” 

She tilts her head up to look at him. “Until the other day.” 

His arm tightens around her shoulder and she looks up again. The stars are already starting to emerge, and she closes her eyes, lets the night envelop her. In the trees around them crickets are singing, and in the distance she hears an owl hoot, the flap of wings. 

“My mother and I used to stargaze,” Peter whispers, and she leans her head against his inner arm, “we would wait until the sun went down before packing a picnic basket and running to the field our back. We would lay there for _hours,_ just pointing out constellations and throwing popcorn at each other.” 

She scoots closer. “What’s your favorite constellation?” 

He smiles down at her, dropping a kiss to the crown of her hair before resting his cheek on her head. “I like your story about the two lovers, but my mom’s favorite constellation was always Lyra. She said that Hermes made it from a tortoise shell, bargained away by Apollo. He then gave it to Orpheus.” 

Gamora wrinkles her nose. “Who?” 

He chuckles. “Orpheus was a famous musician, referred to as the best by some in mythology. His music even won over Hades at one point; my mother used to say music was an invitation for friendship no matter who the person was.” 

“She sounds very kind.” 

“She was. She was the friendliest person I’ve ever known; she gave away her money to strangers on the street and pet every dog she came across. She helped old men cross the street and old women carry their groceries. She would smile to people she never met before on the street, and always told me to always be kind to everyone, even if I didn’t know them.” 

They’re both silent until she hands him one of the fizzy water bottles. He takes it, pulling out his keyring to pop off the caps, and she holds out her own. “To Meredith.” 

Peter blinks before smiling, bring his bottle to clink against hers. “To Idara.” 

They both sit there, soaking in the night around them, until she sets down her own bottle. She takes a deep breath. “If I had to choose my favorite Earthen constellation, I think I would choose Lyra as well.” 

He pulls her ever closer, hand around her waist while the other encircles the neck of his bottle. “Why?” He asks, curious, before taking another swig. 

“Because it’s your favorite,” she shrugs, playing with the end of her braid, “and while I miss my homeworld and their constellations, you’re here with me.” 

Peter stops, sets down his bottle. “What?” 

“You’re my home,” she whispers, reaching up to cup his cheek. Eyes shining suspiciously in the moonlight, she leans in, and he meets her halfway. 

“And you’re mine.” 

His other hand comes up to cradle her neck, drawing her closer until his body heat radiates through her. She throws one leg over his thigh, leaning into his form, and wishes they could stay in the moments forever and ever.

**Author's Note:**

> me, publishing this with time to spare? it's more likely than you think.
> 
> please come cry with me about peter, gamora and their mothers who all deserved better on [twitter](https://twitter.com/starrymora) or [tumblr](http://nymphrea.tumblr.com/).


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